Editing Confessions of a Wayward Son (section)

==Confessions of a Wayward Son II==

Three hundred Astartes. Entire sectors have been brought into heel with less. What warlord worth his salt would not want such a number to join him? What Imperial general would not beg and plead for near a third of a chapter’s worth of Space Marines to join him? What Chaos champion would not butcher and kill for a chance to lead these relentless warriors?
I sometimes wish these three hundred were away from my presence. It is a wish that I am not proud of. They were my brothers. They are –still- my brothers. But how can you be brothers to automatons? Where are the words of companionship spoken by sons who share a father? Where are the joyous shouts when a victory is won? Where are the speeches of lamentation when a fellow brother falls?
I cannot lie and say that the bonds of brotherhood remain tight between me and these three hundred.
Deep in the bowels of my ship, is where the three hundred stand. Always in parade ground rest, their bolters held across their chests. Before each battle, I make my way to the sanctum they reside in. It is harrowing to see these once-men stand in such perfect formation. It is haunting to walk amongst them, knowing that they cannot speak, yet wishing they could. I know some of these men by name. They once served with me in the Fifth Fellowship. Their past glories, their feats of strength and courage, I know by heart. To see them like this, so devoid of emotion, is a feeling I cannot describe.
This is our punishment. A punishment for a crime we did not commit. Never does the law frame a son for his father’s sins. But the universe does not care for judgments made by humans. The galaxy is an unforgiving place, and it is upon our shoulders this unfair penalty falls.

Wherever I go, I am always followed by two towering beings of war. Their adamantium hulls etched in arcane symbols and bedecked in the livery of my Legion, they stride beside me on each side, legacies of the XV Legion's exalted history. They are dreadnoughts, massive behemoths three times as tall as an Astartes, with weapons that could shred entire platoons of Guardsmen in a single salvo. They are my guardians as I am my brothers' guardian, and never have I seen them falter.

The first one is called Ah'ton, a former Sehkmet veteran who once tread the battlefield in Tactical Dreadnought Armor. I knew him before [[Magnus the Red|Magnus]] betrayed us all. We were not close, but we knew each other and respected each other. His ashes have long dissolved in the amniotic fluids that once kept him alive. There is an irony in this. An irony that only men with bitter hearts like mine can appreciate. Ah'ton's left arm is a massive autocannon, his right, a hulking power fist. With these two weapons, he has claimed countless foes, and has saved my life many a time.

The second of the two is called Ishaq. I do not know his history. I obtained him through the warband of another Thousand Sons sorcerer many centuries ago. Even as I boiled away my wayward kinsman's skin and seared the flesh from his bones, my psychic will forced the spirit of the dreadnought and the spirits of his power armored brethren to heed my command. Ishaq possesses a plasma cannon and a gargantuan chainblade arm.

Out of all the three hundred, these two are the ones I prefer for company. Not because they are dangerous. But because they are the only ones out of the three hundred who can make sound.

Ah'ton screams. Ishaq laughs.

This is my company. Maniacal screaming and crazed laughter.

There are more than just Astartes on this ship. There are normal humans as well. Men and women who once lived uninteresting lives on a myriad of planets. Chaos changed that, as it does with many things. The mortals that now reside on this near-derelict battle barge are the survivors from worlds I was too late to save.

These humans now inhabit the upper levels. They are too fearful of the automatons adorned in crimson that stand rigid in the barge's depths to go lower. At first they were not many. A few dozen from each planet left burning by traitors. But this number could only increase. There were too many worlds that were decimated by Chaos Astartes, and soon, the populace swelled. Now thousands of humans calls this battle barge their home, making use of spartan quarters once reserved for Space Marines as places of rest and comfort.

Sometimes, I visit these humans. During these occasions, the dreadnoughts I order away. Their screams and cackling would scare an already fearful people. They treat me with deference and humility, as one would expect of my station. But behind the humble words, I can feel their raw fear gnawing at their insides. Their fears are logical. Once, Astartes like me descended from the skies to butcher their families and their friends. The fact that I have saved them from similar fates does not alleviate their trepidation.

I do not make my visits long. I am too reminded of Prospero and its people, and the deaths the Wolves of Russ visited to them for that.